


Pressed in Organdy

by blindmadness



Category: Bridgerton Series - Julia Quinn
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 10:51:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2809652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blindmadness/pseuds/blindmadness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scenes from the first few months of Phillip and Eloise's marriage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pressed in Organdy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [torigates](https://archiveofourown.org/users/torigates/gifts).



> I could write a million words about how important the Bridgerton series is to me—how they were the first romance novels I truly loved and got attached to, how they opened me up to the genre as a whole and got me started on actively seeking them out, how it went from guilty pleasure to a genuine interest I take pride in—but we're not here for that, so let's just settle for saying that it's deeply important to me, and I really appreciated getting a chance to write this. I adore Phillip and Eloise, both individually and as a couple, and I had a wonderful time with this fic. Thank you, dear recipient, and I hope you enjoy. <3
> 
> Title from "For Emily, Wherever I May Find Her," because the book was almost titled after it.

On the morning that marks one month since her wedding, Eloise wakes to find herself alone in the bed.

She’s only a little startled, especially when she sees through the window that the sun is higher in the sky than usual; there have been days when Phillip desires an earlier start than she does, but he usually wakes her for a kiss before he leaves. So she takes a moment to stretch before getting out of bed to investigate, but as she sits up, she stops short upon catching sight of her nightstand.

Sitting at the table is an orchid, the most perfect orchid Eloise has ever seen—a pale shade of violet, nearly white at the center of its petals, each flower teardrop-shaped, looking soft as velvet. And next to the orchid is, of course, a note.

Eloise lifts it, her eyes already filling with tears, even before she’s read Phillip’s message. _Sometimes, words are simply not enough. I love you._

It’s more perfect than anything else he could have done.

 

It’s really quite amazing to Eloise sometimes—very well, _quite often_ —just how orderly her new life has become.

How lucky she is to be here, walking along the streets of the village, arm in arm with her husband, her two children—her children! She still marvels at it—skipping along in front of them. They’re all dressed neatly and in high spirits, and everything is proceeding as smoothly as could be.

“Amanda!” she calls (as subtly and politely as possible), “Keep your skirts down! Oliver! Don’t run in front of anyone!”

Well, she amends mentally, as smoothly as could be expected, given the presence of two rambunctious eight-year-olds.

She takes a moment to marvel in turn at how easily directives such as these come to her, how easy it is to figure out what to say to Oliver and Amanda and when. Of course, she’s had experience looking after her nieces and nephews, but she’s rarely had to discipline them, given that they’ve never been more than a few moments from their parents. She’s had hardly any trouble with Oliver and Amanda, though, and whatever commands she has to give them seem to come naturally. It could be that she’s known from the start of meeting them that she could (and probably would) be their mother. It could be the confidence from finally having a place of her own in the world—a husband and a home, and the children that make it a complete picture.

It could be that everyone’s still so happy about the whole situation—that their family has come together so smoothly. That Phillip and Eloise have fallen in love and are still blissfully happy, that Oliver and Amanda have two attentive, caring parents and nurses and governesses who truly wish them well.

“Aren’t they meant to be practicing their arithmetic?” Phillip says after a moment, and Eloise blinks up at him innocently. “I seem to recall you saying something of the sort to the governess when we took the children from their lessons?”

She can practically feel her expression turn sheepish. “I may have said that,” she admits. Perhaps those are still the actions of a permissive aunt rather than a disciplinary mother—but the day was so lovely, and she was feeling so pleased about everything, and she couldn’t resist.

And yes, perhaps she had promised that they would work on arithmetic during the outing to make up for their absence from lessons. She should have known that Phillip would hold her to the promise.

Well, the children are progressing well enough —she’s certain that they can focus on arithmetic, at least for a moment. “Oliver!” she calls. “Nine and eight?”

Oliver skids to a halt, brow furrowing for a moment. “Nineteen!” he says triumphantly, then shrieks with glee as Amanda swats him in the shoulder with a stick, grabbing one in return to chase after her.

Phillip laughs aloud, and Eloise shoots a scowl at him. Very well—things could be progressing more smoothly. But she doesn’t think she’d want it any other way.

 

“Phillip?”

Phillip turns at the sound of his wife’s voice, unable to hide his surprise upon spotting her in the field. It’s not an enormous distance from the house, but it’s far enough away—and, more to the point, not at all within her sphere of interest—that he never expected her to come out so far.

“Eloise!” Despite his surprise, he can’t hide his pleasure upon seeing her. She’s dressed a little more casually than usual, likely a concession to the warmth of the day—in a light, informal day dress of light blue, her hair only partially dressed. She looks fresh and lovely and unspoiled, and seeing her outside, so far from the usual setting of their house, the sun at her back—

He takes a deep breath, removing his gloves as he reaches for her, brushing his thumb gently across her cheek. “What are you doing out here? I’m delighted to see you, but—”

“Supper’s almost ready,” Eloise says quickly, smiling at him, but something about it is a little off. “I wanted to make sure you made it back inside in time. It’s later than you think it is, you know. You’re the last one out here.”

Phillip glances at the sky in surprise, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand; though the sun is sinking in the sky, it’s still giving off rather a lot of heat. She’s right—it ought to be just around the time they usually prepare to eat, but he’s lost track of time, given the length of the day in the summer. This is the first day he’s worked outside since marrying Eloise, and he’s forgotten how much he enjoys the exertion, the sheer physical pleasure of the work. That would certainly explain why he’s the last one here.

“What have you been working on out here?” Eloise asks, her tone still a little strangled.

He peers at her, curious. She doesn’t look ill or otherwise harmed, though her face seems a little flushed. The question is clearly intended to distract him, and if he knows his wife, her words earlier had the tone of a nervous babble. “We’re doing some planting for the early fall,” he says, indicating the rows of small trees lining the field. “Moving certain plants to areas that might be better for them—”

He breaks off as he looks back at Eloise, who is doing a perfectly fine impression of listening to what he’s saying, but the intensity of her distracted gaze is giving her away as her eyes linger on him—or, more precisely, on the spot where his cravat would be, were he wearing formal dress. Where, instead, his shirt is unbuttoned and loose.

He arches an eyebrow, clearing his throat quietly, and Eloise’s gaze jumps back to his guiltily, a flush on her face.

 _Ah._ So she _has_ been having fantasies about laborers. Or perhaps just him in the role of laborer.

A slow smile spreads across his face. Everyone else has left, and their chances of being disturbed are quite low. Both of them are attired more loosely than usual, and Phillip’s feeling the energy of a day’s hearty work buzzing in his veins. He would welcome a very different outlet for his exertion.

They were probably already going to be late for supper, anyway.

“I’m not hungry,” Phillip says, his voice deliberately low, then adds, “Well—perhaps I am. But not for supper.”

Eloise’s eyes widen, and her face turns positively crimson. “Phillip,” she says, and she likely means it to sound like a protest, but it’s much too weak to pass muster. (He’s certainly accustomed to that particular nuance of her voice by now.)

He takes a step closer to her, and he can practically _see_ her thinking, weighing the advantages and disadvantages. She can’t hide the way she’s watching his form—she is very clearly interested, and it takes less than a few seconds for her to give in.

She strides to him and kisses him, with enthusiasm enough to nearly knock him over; he responds by wrapping both arms around her waist, crushing her to him, and lifting her in order to press her to the ground.

”Phillip,” she gasps, half in protest and ending in a moan as his teeth find a sensitive spot behind her ear.

”Would you have preferred standing up?” he asks, his voice low in her ear, and _”Phillip!”_ she says again, sounding both shocked and intrigued.

He loves that he can still surprise her, that there are things he has yet to show her—and that she wants to be shown those things.

He loves _her._

“I love you,” he whispers in her ear, even as his hands are finding their way beneath her skirt, skimming up her leg, gently squeezing her thigh.

“I love you, too,” she gasps back, the sincerity in her tone plain, even as she whimpers and gasps and bucks upward into his hand. _“Phillip!”_

The urge to see her stretched out on the ground, naked and disheveled and splendid, is almost more than Phillip can bear—but the sight of her with her hair tangled, her gown already stained with grass and dirt, her skirts hiked up around her waist, is so glorious that he can’t resist. He needs to see her reach her peak like this, too.

He takes a moment to watch her, the rays of the late afternoon sun casting ruddy tints across her hair and a golden glow to her skin, and then he parts her legs and bends down between them.

Eloise shrieks, so loudly that Phillip half expects someone to come running out to the field, and bucks her hips up again him. He teases her open with his tongue, just barely—just enough to make her squirm so hard she almost knocks him over—and then he raises his head, his expression teasingly admonishing. “I need you to stay still for me,” he murmurs, his hands settling at her hips, pinning her skirts up. “Can you do that?”

Her expression is open and helpless, but even past that, she manages to shoot him a sardonic look. _“No,”_ she says, the scolding in her own tone so clear that he can’t help but laugh. She’s a marvel, his wife.

“Well, I’m afraid you must.” He can’t resist bending over her to press a swift, hard kiss to her mouth before bending back to his task, keeping his hands busy with holding onto her skirts, teasing her to the brink and back with his mouth alone, his tongue working its way along every crevice of her, his mouth gently sucking and nibbling ever so lightly—and true to form, Eloise is completely unable to stay still, but squirms and bucks and tangles her fingers into his hair, urging him closer and closer, until he can feel her entire body shuddering—and she’s close, so close, and that’s when he pulls away.

Eloise stares at him, her eyes huge and impatient, and he moves to divest her of her gown completely, fingers flying through the buttons. She helps him, shifting out of it until she’s completely laid bare on the ground—and he loves, _adores_ that she wants this as much as he does, that she hasn’t for a second brought up the impropriety of it all, that she has simply dived right into it.

But there’s one more matter to address before they continue.

“You didn’t stay very still,” Phillip chides her gently, kicking off his boots and pulling off his own trousers, doing his best to do so without moving too far from his wife.

“Did you really expect me to?” she snaps back, scowling at him—and she’s so adorable, so far beyond beautiful, that he can’t help but laugh quietly, even as he’s almost painfully aroused.

“I didn’t,” he confesses, and leans in to kiss her, move his hands briefly down her body, across her shoulders and breasts and stomach—she shudders, pressing into his touch—and he speaks right against her lips, low and wicked, “So I think I’m going to have to _make_ you stay still.”

Eloise’s eyes go wide again, but he feels her breath hitch, and he hears her shaky whisper, “Oh— _yes.”_

Phillip shifts back to fumble at his shirt, too impatient to be neat, but Eloise’s hand shoots out, stilling his motions. “Leave it on,” she says, her voice husky. “I—I like it.”

Phillip’s own breath catches at that, and he groans as he reaches for her, pressing them together, kissing her with a mindless intensity. She’s clutching at him, and he’s almost forgotten his promise as she’s leaning back, but he remembers just in time, and he reaches to catch her hands in his, raising her arms above her head, and capturing both wrists in one hand, holding her to the ground.

He sees the moment Eloise realizes she’s pinned down, watches his hand trace down her body again—more slowly, more deliberately, lingering—feels her arch towards him and hears her whimper in pleasure, and he can’t wait any longer.

When he enters her, it’s fast and furious immediately. She wraps her legs around his waist to urge him on faster in the only way she can, and from the way she’s shaking against him, he can tell that she’s driven to desperation by her inability to touch him, the way he’s holding her down, thrusting into her, swift and strong and sure. When her climax hits her, she screams so loudly it nearly deafens Phillip, until his own release hits him and his own shout joins hers. They press against each other, shaking one another with the strength of their fulfillment, and they sink to the ground together, breathless and sweaty and entwined.

Phillip wipes his brow with his forearm, though his shirt is hardly in very good condition at this point, and Eloise uses the new freedom of her arms to pull him closer, cradling his head to her shoulder.

“We,” she says after a moment, sounding slightly hoarse and incredibly satisfied, “are going to be _extremely_ late for supper.”

Phillip laughs at that, because he can’t not, and he tips his head up to kiss her. He stays there longer than he intends it to, because kissing his wife is one of the most absorbing activities he can imagine, and when he pulls away, all that he can do is smile at her.

She smiles back, her hands cupping his face with open warmth and affection. She leans in to kiss him again, more quickly, and murmurs, “Next time, we will _certainly_ try it standing up.”

 

Several days later, as they are seated for supper, Oliver sits down at the table and immediately jumps back up with a yelp.

“Oliver,” Phillip exclaims, and Oliver cries, “There are _peas_ on my chair!”

Eloise and Phillip exchange a look of surprise, then turn to look at Amanda, who’s staring back at them mutinously.

“Amanda,” Phillip says slowly, “did you put peas on your brother’s chair?”

“Yes,” Amanda says defiantly, and Phillip looks startled to have his accusation addressed so directly. After a pause to process it, he asks slowly, _“Why_ did you put peas on your brother’s chair?”

Amanda shrugs, her expression sullen, and doesn’t respond.

“Amanda,” Eloise says, her tone just a little sharper than Phillip’s, “will you answer your father?”

 _“No,”_ Amanda exclaims, far more loudly than the question merits, and leaps to her feet, her own chair clattering to the ground behind her. “And you can’t make me, either! You aren’t my _real_ mother!”

And with that pronouncement, she runs out of the dining room and upstairs, slamming the door behind her.

Eloise slumps back in her seat, feeling her face go slack with shock. She barely notices as Oliver sits back down, clearly completely forgetting about the peas, staring at her with enormous, alarmed eyes, and Phillip turning to her in concern, resting his hand on her shoulder.

“Oliver,” he says quietly, eyes still on Eloise, “perhaps—a moment in the sitting room—” 

Oliver nods quickly and stands—but on his way out, he stops at Eloise’s chair to fling his arms around her neck and squeeze, tightly, before walking away.

Eloise finds herself having to blink back tears, and her eyes turn to the ground. Phillip’s arm comes around her shoulders and his fingers under her chin, tilting her gaze up to his. “Eloise,” he says, very softly, and Eloise feels very much like crying.

“You know she didn’t mean it,” he says, and though his brow is furrowed with concern, his tone is gentle and reassuring. “Amanda thinks of you as her mother in every way. I think of you as her mother. You _are_ her mother.”

“I know,” Eloise says quietly—although, truly, does she? She hadn’t even known that Amanda existed three months ago; she hasn’t been present for any significant moments in Amanda’s life. She didn’t watch her take her first steps, or hear her first word, or hold her the first time she fell and skinned her knee. She’s barely been present in Amanda’s life—what can two months mean to an eight-year-old? _Is_ she truly Amanda’s mother?

“Eloise,” Phillip says, and brushes a tear she didn’t know had fallen from her face away with his thumb. “Stop. I can _hear_ you thinking. You are her mother. You know it, and Amanda knows it. I don’t know what’s wrong, to make her say otherwise —”

“I’ll talk to her,” Eloise says, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “I’ll see what it is. Honestly, I’m surprised this has taken so long. There were bound to be problems with us—well, _happening_ the way we did.” She gives Phillip a brief, watery smile. “I’m prepared to face them.”

Phillip still looks concerned, but Eloise fends off further queries by kissing him, briefly but firmly. He reaches for her again when she pulls away, setting his hand at the back of her neck and pulling her closer for a longer, gentler kiss.

“Good luck,” he says, and Eloise smiles at him again, shakily.

There’s no response when Eloise knocks on the door of the twins’ room, which doesn’t surprise her. She waits for a moment before knocking again, just to be certain, but then opens the door—cautiously, making sure that there’s nothing blocking the doorway, or resting atop the door, or waiting just inside the door for her to fall into.

She doesn’t truly believe that Amanda would still do that, but it can do her no harm to be cautious.

Amanda is sitting on her bed, huddled in the corner, her knees drawn in to her chest, her face miserable. Any anger or hurt Eloise has been feeling immediately dissipates in the face of her daughter’s pain.

“Oh, Amanda,” she says gently, and Amanda bursts into tears.

Eloise sits down next to her on the bed; immediately, Amanda flings herself at her, sobbing into her shoulder. Eloise gathers her close, murmuring into her hair, stroking her back until her breathing evens and quiets.

“I’m sorry,” she hiccups out, clutching at Eloise’s gown more tightly. “I’m s—sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—Mother, I’m so sorry.”

“I know, darling,” Eloise murmurs, holding her more tightly, kissing her forehead. “I know. It’s all right.”

Amanda pulls away, her little face very serious, and Eloise feels a sudden burst of pride for her. She’s been through so much in her short life—living with a mother who never truly showed joy, losing a parent so early, being hurt, badly, by her nurse, and having a new mother introduced in her life so quickly. And, even though this was a happy change, her father becoming a more active part of her life, too. And she’s survived it all with little complaint and her head held high.

“No,” she says, very firmly and precisely. “I was hurtful to you. I said something cruel, and I didn’t mean it. You are my mother. You’re the best mother anyone could ask for. I am—I am so happy to have you in my life.”

Her lower lip is trembling, and she looks anything but happy right now. But Eloise hears the sincerity in her tone, and she sees Amanda’s eyes shining, and she draws her daughter to her for another tight hug.

“I know,” she says, very softly. “Believe me—I know. You are the best daughter anyone could ask for—and I’m so happy to have _you_ in my life.” She kisses Amanda’s forehead again, then pulls away, her expression turning serious. “What is it, Amanda?”

Amanda doesn’t pretend to misunderstand, her gaze dropping to the floor. “The season will start soon, won’t it?”

Eloise blinks. That certainly wasn’t what she was expecting to hear. “Yes,” she says slowly. “In several months. Why do you ask?”

Amanda’s lower lip starts trembling harder, and she looks ready to burst into tears all over again. “So—so you’ll want to go to London for it. Won’t you?”

Eloise has barely thought about the season since marrying Phillip, being so busy with adjusting to her new life. But, well—“I suppose,” she says slowly. “I’ve always been in London for the season, and enjoyed it very much. I would miss it if I weren’t there.” And she misses her family, too. Her mother has hardly been subtle in her desire for the Crane family to visit London, and she misses her siblings and nieces and nephews and friends. It would be lovely to see everyone again.

Amanda sighs, kicking her feet morosely. “Won’t you miss us?” she asks sadly.

Eloise stares at her, dumbfounded. “Miss you?” she asks blankly.

“While you’re in London.” Amanda raises huge, sad eyes to her. “Us and Father—I can’t imagine he would want to go with you. Would you stay for the whole season?”

Shock lances through Eloise, and her jaw drops open. “Amanda,” she exclaims, her voice hoarse with incredulity. “Did you—did you think that I would go to London for the season—and leave all of you here in the country?”

Doubt creeps into Amanda’s expression. “Well… yes,” she says slowly. “Wouldn’t you?”

“Of course not!” Her tone rises several octaves, and she tries to lower her voice, to sound calmer and less hysterical. “Amanda—your father and I haven’t discussed what we’ll do for the season yet. But whatever we do, we’ll do it as a family. If we chose to go to London, we would _all_ go.”

Amanda’s feet still, and her doubt is replaced with hope. “Really?” she asks in a small voice, and Eloise can’t help smiling.

“Yes, of course, you silly girl. Do you really think I could bear to leave any of you behind? Or to deprive you of seeing the city?”

Amanda smiles, small and shy. “London does sound terribly exciting.”

“And,” Eloise adds, leaning in as if she’s telling a secret, “I know you barely had a chance to meet my sister Daphne’s children—but she has three daughters, and all of them are just about your age.”

Amanda’s eyes grow huge, and Eloise knows that she’s won. “I shall have friends in London?” she whispers, looking delighted.

“Amanda,” Eloise says, resting both hands on her shoulders with a gentle smile, “you shall have _cousins_ in London.”

Amanda looks ready to cry again, but this time for joy. “London?” she asks again, as if she can barely believe it.

“London,” Eloise confirms, and Amanda breaks into a delighted smile before flinging her arms around Eloise.

“I love you,” Amanda whispers as she clings to Eloise, and she feels tears rise to her eyes again. It’s the first time Amanda has ever said it, and her heart feels so full that it just might burst.

“I love you, too,” she says, her voice shaking as she hugs her daughter.

 

“We ought to start thinking about the season,” Eloise tells Phillip the next afternoon.

They’re sitting together in his study—Phillip arranging some estate documents, Eloise looking over household expenses. She doesn’t join him here often; their staff is a small one, and runs the house smoothly enough that her input is rarely required. Still, she would hardly be Eloise if she didn’t insist on having a hand in things every now and again.

“It’s still several months away,” she continues, turning her chair fully towards him, “but my mother has been writing to me to ask if we’ll be there. We ought to be presented, you know, as husband and wife, and she would be so pleased to have a ball in our honor.”

Phillip doesn’t quite grimace, but his expression suggests it. Eloise is fully aware that a ball in their honor sounds like something close to torture for him, but she also knows that if she asks it of him, he’ll endure it.

“Do you want to be in London for the season?” he asks her, reluctantly, and she can’t help a smile. She’s so used to men who would view the alternative as unthinkable, she still finds it unbearably charming that he’s so averse to the city.

“Yes,” she tells him honestly. “But I also want you to be happy, and I know that you won’t be if we spend months at a time in London. Oh, Phillip,” she cuts in as she sees him open his mouth to protest, “are you really going to argue? You scowl every time I so much as say the word ‘season.’”

His brow furrows again, just a little, and he looks halfway between sheepish and defeated as Eloise laughs. “I want you to have everything that you want,” he says softly, reaching for her hand to press a kiss to her palm. “Everything that you would have had if you’d married a man who made his home in London, too.”

Eloise smiles at him, fond. “I _could_ have married someone who made his home in London, you exasperating man. But I married _you,_ and I knew exactly what that meant for me. I have no regrets.”

Phillip smiles at her—his usual smile, truly and undeniably happy but just a little bit shy—the smile of a man who still can’t quite believe his good fortune, but is learning not to question it. It’s Eloise’s favorite sight in all the world.

“The children ought to spend more time with their family, too,” she reminds him, squeezing his hand. “They have Benedict and Sophie and their children, of course, but Daphne’s daughters are all around Amanda’s age, and Anthony’s sons are Oliver’s. They ought to all spend some time together. I’m sure they would get along—and I know Amanda, at least, would like to see the city.”

“You don’t have to convince me, Eloise,” Phillip says, running a hand through his hair, looking more than a little beleaguered. “I know the children would love to go. I know _you_ would love to go. And I suppose London can’t be too terrible.” Eloise barely manages to stifle a laugh; he looks like a man going to the gallows. “If the season is what you desire, that is exactly what we’ll do.”

Eloise smiles at him, her dear husband who would gladly endure what he likely sees as worse than the gallows for her sake, hers and the children’s. “We needn’t stay the entire season, you know. I’m sure it would be an ordeal for the children to be away from home for so long—and I know it would be one for you.” Phillip shoots her a sardonic look, which she ignores, and she feels her expression turn wistful.

“And if I’m being honest,” she adds thoughtfully, “I do believe that I would miss it, too. Being here has reminded me how very much I love the country—and I’ve never felt more at home anywhere else in the world. For reasons that ought to be obvious,” she says, as if Phillip might not have guessed the reason behind it.

“I can’t anticipate how much time it will take me to go mad in the city,” Phillip tells her frankly, and this time Eloise can’t help her laugh. “Or how long it might take Oliver and Amanda to grow homesick. But I believe we can negotiate our presence for—a month or two, at least.”

Eloise knows her family, and she knows that _a month or two, at least_ is likely to become at least twice that. And if she’s still being honest, she probably won’t have had her fill of London in merely two months, either. But she nods, and she stands so that she can cross over to Phillip and give him a kiss, and she decides that they have plenty of time in the coming weeks to make their decision.

 

However, the next few weeks render the making of any such decisions moot.

 

There are some who might think it cowardly that Eloise chooses to give Phillip the news in writing rather than aloud. She prefers to think of it as adhering to their cherished tradition.

And, perhaps, she’s also afraid that she might not find the right words in a single moment, and this might, on the whole, be easier.

So at dinner, after the children have gone, Eloise excuses herself, and Phillip is brought a note in his wife’s handwriting, reading _It truly is a tradition by now, is it not? How could I let an occasion for news come into our lives and not convey it with a note?_

Phillip’s breath catches. He’s suspected, of course—how could he not?—but his heart is still racing as he reads the instructions to go into his office.

He follows the trail from there to the sitting room to the twins’ room to the front hall, his steps growing progressively quicker, unfolding each note with steadily shakier hands.

They read as follows:

_I cannot imagine a better life than the one I’ve been growing with you at my side. I never believed it would be possible to wake each morning even happier than the day before._

_I would have told anyone who asked that there was nothing missing from my life, that you and our children fulfill every need I could ever have._

_And yet… there are always things that can add to a life, even one as seemingly perfect as ours, are there not?_

_And after knowing this, I truly cannot imagine anything else that I could want for._

The last note directs Phillip to his and Eloise’s bedchamber, and he knows what awaits him when he opens the door.

His wife is standing at her boudoir, her hands clasped to her chest, a hopeful, nervous smile blooming across her lovely face. She takes two steps closer to him and extends her hand, in which another small piece of paper is resting.

Phillip takes it, unfolds it, and—hardly daring to breathe—reads the words on the page.

_I’m expecting._

He drops the paper to the ground and strides to Eloise, crushing her to him, taking her lips in a fierce kiss. The joy on her face, when he pulls away from her, is incandescent, and he knows it’s mirrored on his own. 

“Are you certain?” he asks, although of course she must be.

She nods. “I’ve missed my courses for two months now, and I’ve felt ill the past few weeks—most often in the morning. _And_ when I visited Benedict and Sophie last week, Sophie suspected it without my even saying anything, so it must be true.”

Phillip opens his mouth, but nothing comes out, and he’s startled to find that he can’t speak. His throat feels too tight, and his heart feels too full. He simply can’t find the words for this moment.

“This fixes it all, you see?” Eloise is talking too quickly now, Phillip barely following her words—instead he focuses on her beaming face, her eyes bright with emotion, her smile wide even as she speaks. “I’m thrilled for the child, of course—it’s everything I ever dreamed of—but the timing couldn’t be better, either. We’ll go to London for the start of the season, but I’ll start to show soon enough, and when I need to be in confinement, we’ll go back home. Isn’t it perfect? Can you imagine how clever this little one will be, if she’s solving our problems so neatly already?”

Phillip laughs, not because he finds her amusing, but because he’s so _happy,_ and there’s simply no other way for him to express it. He never dreamed he’d have all of this—his children easy and trusting and affectionate with him, his days full of purpose and laughter and love, a marriage that lights his life in every imaginable way—and Eloise, of course, _Eloise,_ who’s made all of it possible, who showed him what life and love could be if he opened his heart to them. And now, a child—another child—Eloise’s child. It’s too much to bear.

“I love you,” he whispers, surprised to find tears in his eyes as he cups her face in his hands, pulls her to him so that he can rest his forehead against hers. “I love you—and I love her already.”

“I love you, too.” Eloise kisses him, then pulls away with a smile. “Do you want it to be a daughter?”

“I want it to be our child,” he tells her earnestly, “and nothing more.”

“Then congratulations, Sir Phillip,” Eloise murmurs, beaming at him, “for you’re to be a father again.”

Phillip will think about this later—about telling Oliver and Amanda, about announcing the news to the rest of Eloise’s family, about the practical arrangements needing to be made, about how he’ll feel when Eloise is navigating the season in her delicate condition as he goes mad with worry for her and their child. About everything that will need to be done to fit their lives around a new child. 

For now, he only wants to think of the perfection of the woman beside him, and the smile on her face when he kisses her again.


End file.
